Pigma Dengar: Pilot Extraordinaire
by xpNc
Summary: Enter the mind of Pigma Dengar.
1. Shrine to indifference

**Real men write stories after a half decade hiatus.**

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><p>Empty bags of cheese flavoured snacks litter the floor. The tell-tale orange dust of artificial dairy products has infused itself with the carpet, staining it a dull grey-orange permanently. Mounds of pizza boxes and empty soda cans form a border around discarded magazines and other filth. The smell was similar to festering rubbish when left in the heat, or perhaps an unwashed gym bag. At the centre of this shrine to indifference lies Pigma Dengar, pilot extraordinaire.<p>

His breathing staggered due to his poor health while he slept. The boorish snorts and an occasional burst of flatulence are the only visible signs of life. An alarm drones on. Pigma took an apathetic swing at the clock before falling back into unconsciousness. Moments later he was woken up by the alarm again, and takes a second to glance at the time before he hits snooze. 2:47 PM. Pigma does not wake up before 3:00 PM. Ever. Desperately trying to get his extra 13 minutes of beauty sleep, Pigma ignored the phone as it started to ring.

He even ignored it the second time. And the third. Fourth.

It wasn't until his answering machine picked up the fifth time that his heart sank.

"Pigma!" yelled the voice on the answering machine. "Wake up, you fat sack of shit! You said you'd be here at 2:30!"

Fuck.

Pigma jumped into action and toppled a mountain of trash in his wake. He waddled, knocking over towers of delicately stacked cardboard boxes and DVD cases as he struggled to reach the phone. He cleared twelve hours worth of mucus from his throat and hit redial. The person on the other side answered instantly.

"It's about goddamn time! Were you still sleeping?"

"N-" Pigma cleared his throat once again in a futile effort to make him sound more alert. "Not at all!"

"Bullshit! You were up all night watching porn again, weren't you? I told you to set your alarm for 1:00!"

"Wolf, man, cut me some slack, my alarm's broken!"

Wolf went silent. After a few seconds, he sighed. "Listen here, Porker." He says. "You have ten minutes. Ten minutes to get down here or your ass is bacon."

_Slam_.

"Wolf doesn't have a corded phone. He uses a cell phone. He just sl-" Pigma swallowed. "He must be pissed."

Pigma wiped the sleep out of his eyes. He knew he was in the wrong here. He'd promised numerous times throughout the week that he would be up bright and early at 1 PM. Last night's events were a blur, but if the stacks of pizza boxes and piles of scattered smut magazines were any indication, he had a good night.

He fished around in a pile of garbage for a pair of pants. Satisfied with a crusty pair of old blue jeans, he struggled to put them on while sucking in his gut. With a triumphant zip of his fly and a swig of stale soda, he was ready for a day about town. He approached his front door, and was shocked to find out that his doorknob was sticky. He had no idea why. Ignoring it, he turned the doorknob threw the front door open.

Disgusting.

The light burned his eyes. The sounds of the birds chirping infuriated him. The only thing that could have made the scene worse was _children_. The playful cheers of prepubescent scum brought his blood to a boil. The Cornerian countryside guaranteed him isolation from the one thing he hated most. His closest neighbour was half a kilometre away. Unfortunately, with countryside comes hay fever, and within a few seconds of entering the outside world, Pigma started to sneeze. He half-assedly tried to cover his nose with his arm, but all he managed to do was stain his shirt further. What was once a bleach white sleeveless shirt has become an off-white greasy tarp that he wore almost constantly. A disgusting hue of green joined the plethora of food and sweat stains that covered his shirt like a canvas. It'd be almost poetic if it wasn't so disgusting.

He waddled down his front steps and headed towards his garage. Mustering all the strength his porky little body could muster, Pigma lifted the garage door over his shoulders, he knees nearly buckling under the weight. His garage was almost as unsanitary as his house, with oily rags and miscellaneous tools scattered about. The centrepiece of this fire hazard was Pigma's most prized possession. His Arwing.


	2. I've got some falling to do

Pigma dragged his stepladder from across the room. It's technically illegal to keep an Arwing in your own personal garage, but Pigma was part of Star Fox. He was above the law. His short legs wobbled as he walked up the steps, but eventually he had thrown his porkish mass over and up into the cockpit. Taking a few deep breaths and a moment of well-deserved rest, Pigma shoved his hand in his crusty pocket and produced a key after a few seconds of searching. Pigma did a triumphant stretch and then put the key in the Arwing's ignition. Techno music blared from the radio as the engine fired up. He lowered the windshield, flipped a few colourful switches and slowly inched out of the garage.

The landing gear wasn't exactly built for speed, so Pigma impatiently twiddled his pig fingers while he waited to exit the garage. Bags of trash were displaced by the wings of the craft, and a pile of miscellaneous refuse fell off the loft of his garage onto his windshield. He flipped on the wipers.

The Arwing left the garage and Pigma turned it onto the road. No one lived anywhere near him, so he had more or less unrestricted access to use the road as a runway. He pressed a big red button and the Arwing sped up. As it reached its optimal takeoff speed of 141 kilometres per hour, he pulled back slightly on the joystick. The Arwing lifted itself, and as it automatically withdrew its landing gear several half-empty cans of beer fell from the undercarriage. Pigma set the autopilot on course to Wolf's complex, and drifted back into a near-comatose state. It would be a few minutes before he arrived, giving him time to make up for lost sleep.

Or so he thought.

Pigma was jolted back awake by a piercing alarm. A festival of lights on the console, mostly red, had begun to dance in front of his eyes. Confused, Pigma looked at the various gauges to see if anything was wrong. Speed, 437 km/h. Altitude, 11 km. Fuel, **E**.

"Oh, _shit_."

The Arwing tipped towards the ground and began dropping rapidly. In response, Pigma furiously fumbled at the controls, knowing full well that it was an exercise in futility. He was going to crash, and there was literally nothing he could do to prevent it. He was falling like a rock and descending at nearly double his cruising speed.

10 km. 9 km. 8 km. It was a sick countdown to the end of his life. Thinking back, Pigma decided he had little regrets. His piggish arm struggled to reach his last can of beer from behind his chair, but suddenly he felt a jolt and the wind in his hair.

Pigma looked down to see his Arwing, without him in it, spiraling to the ground. "Wait, what?" he asked, as if he was expecting an answer. "What just happened?"

Upon further inspection, Pigma realised he was still in his chair but falling as a much slower rate. Looking up, he noticed a parachute. He had accidentally ejected himself. As he gracefully drifted to the fields below, he looked at his watch. 3:16 PM.

"Wolf is going to be _pissed_."


End file.
